


God of Mirth

by Indybaggins



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Angst, Friendship/Love, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-02
Updated: 2011-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never meant for it to happen. </p><p>Written for the prompt “Clive fucks Greg on the desk”</p>
            </blockquote>





	God of Mirth

 

 

“Take it away… Tony.”

The game starts and Clive leans back in his chair, his hands shuffling the cue cards. They flutter and flow, their touch quick like quivering butterflies while Clive keeps an eye on the stage. With Tony there he needs to pay attention. As soon as Tony goes too far he needs to buzz an end to the game. But in the mean time he has this fraction of a moment to himself. His chair warm in his back. His hands moving and adjusting, folding papers into twos and fours in a calming habit. 

They’re only an hour into the taping but there have been a lot of stops and starts, sound checks and a lighting issue, so he’s not going to be home before midnight. Certainly not if Greg has something to do with it, that is, and Clive’s no longer looking at Tony. 

Greg’s sitting in his chair the two steps up, occasionally laughing at a joke. When he reaches out to take a drink from his glass the lights reflect in his glasses, and Clive tries to look away before… 

Greg catches his eye. 

For a second there’s a flash of shame deep in his belly at being caught staring and he feels his face pulling oddly, the corners of his mouth wanting to curl up into a smile, the rest of him wanting to tell Greg something, everything. 

Greg only raises a surprised eyebrow in return, and Clive smiles back, briefly, before turning away from the intensity in his eyes. 

Greg wants to tell him something, too. 

The game comes back into focus, an explosion of sound and movement. The crowd behind Clive’s back is wild and sharp with applause; the people in front of him on stage are cracking up, hiccuping and shaking with laughter. 

He says “Well done!” without knowing why, his lips forming the words out of habit, and he pushes the buzzer, ends it all with a practiced normality. 

He has no idea what the scene had been about. 

 

When Greg isn’t here, the stage is a bubble to Clive. Looking through, he can appreciate the beauty, the humor of it all from afar. But he doesn’t belong there and he likes it that way. He knows who to be. 

But when Greg… the first time Greg was there he took one look at Clive and broke the fourth wall by talking to him as if he was seeing something funny, someone to play with. Greg threw a scattering of comments out there, again and again, until they crawled under Clive’s skin and he started replying. Until he was in on the bubble. 

It’s not always that way and especially today using the buzzer feels like knocking on glass to Clive, both of his fists banging against it, trying to get them to hear him. The audience is rowdy and annoyed at the delays and they all have to work harder to get through this. 

When a couple minutes later the connection between the audience and the performers falls into sync again Clive fleetingly thinks that maybe he’s the only one behind glass. Maybe he’s the one preserved here, left for tourists to gawk at, to point their fingers at how ridiculously still he’s sitting in between so much commotion.

His voice wavers a little when he does the usual goodbye talk, but no one notices. And then they’re off camera, done for the night, but the relief is less strong than he thought it would be. 

He gets up and grabs his mountain of folded cards, feeling somewhat ashamed at how many there are. They’re something he doesn’t want the cleaning staff to find. They’re odd, eccentricities perhaps, but they’re his. 

Walking across the stage, step, step, step, he can hear the people file out behind him. Greg comes up to him before he can escape through the stage exit doors, but then again he’d been expecting it. 

“I’m tired, Greg.” Clive say, admitting it freely, nobody left to impress. 

But Greg surprises him by nodding. “I know.” 

 

And that’s why Clive agrees to follow Greg to the bar. They all go there often, to unload, they call it. It doesn’t take too much of an effort for him, smiles translate pretty well even from the little corner he pushes himself into.

But Greg doesn’t let him. Greg sits close, and talks to him. 

Not the usual quick back and forth they do on stage. Not even something sarcastic, Clive is surprised to notice. Tonight Greg is just human, an average man sitting across from him, talking about the weather, his cat, the Thames. He has dark shadows under his eyes, and a faint nicotine stain on his finger that he keeps on rubbing back and forth against the rim of his glasses.

Clive doesn’t know if this is a side of Greg that nobody ever sees of if it’s just there now, created for him to see. He doesn’t care. 

Greg smiles at him, but there’s little fire behind it. It’s just there, hovering between them, and Clive knows he somehow responds to the sentiment appropriately, because in between words Greg keeps on looking at him with an unfamiliar warmth in his eyes. 

After his promised one drink Clive gets up and leaves a bill at the table. Greg looks up at him but doesn’t try to stop him. He only casually grabs his hand and squeezes it for a second before letting go. 

Clive leaves as planned, goes to bed. But somehow the touch stays with him. For days after, he catches himself curiously looking at the skin of his hand, feeling Greg’s hand there like a question deep in his bones.

 

Two weeks later there’s another taping, another night, another audience. 

Clive no longer feels the touch but he feels something more dangerous when he looks at Greg, today. Greg doesn’t waver in looking back. 

The show goes on, people walking on and off the stage, and Clive, he’s there banging on the glass again, hoping. They listen to him today, but he doesn’t know why. He’s both a distant god they need to please and not there at all, pushed aside for the deep pulsating thread of laughter that ties them all together and leaves him out. 

This time, after the show has ended Greg doesn’t even have to ask. Clive just takes his coat and they’re on their way.

 

It’s different, of course it is. Greg doesn’t touch his hand. Greg laughs loudly with the others. They stay last, the both of them, maybe because Clive is too timid to get up and leave, can’t bear to. And then Greg convinces him to go back to the studio and Clive says yes only because he’s looking for a resolution to this, an end to the question.

Greg has a key, which doesn’t surprise Clive in the least. Greg always seems to get away with anything.

They walk into the studio, two pairs of echoing footsteps and shadows. And it all looks bizarre, at night. So many rows of empty seats.

The desk is in the middle, covered in liquid shadows, strangely intimidating now.

Greg grabs his hand again, Clive startles, but forces himself not to pull away. Greg’s breath is hot in his ear. “I want you to fuck me on the desk” 

And Clive feels everything fall apart because _god_. But what he says is, “Yes,” and then, “I’ve always wanted to.” 

He’s lying. 

Whatever Clive felt for Greg has never included this before because he has never let himself think it. But now he undoes his pants, lets them fall down in a graceless puddle between his shoes, and he finds that he is half-hard. Maybe he is a person that does do this, but he just never knew before. Maybe he can push into Greg like he does to his wife but feel something more.

Clive takes long seconds to open the condom Greg hands him and put it on, cataloging the plastic tang, the unpleasant slipperiness between his fingers. 

Greg is not hard but he does not seem to want to be, already he crawls over the desk and the white, tender part of muscle at the low dip of his back asks questions Clive has never had the answers to. 

Clive steps close and lets his dick stroke over Greg’s ass cheeks. Slowly, a circle, up and down. He’s not trying to tease, as teasing would involve something premeditated. He is just spreading a moment into many more, he’s stuck in the strange sliding movement, the odd sight of his own plastic flesh on Greg’s, holding onto a moment he does not want to let go. 

Greg grows impatient quickly, of course, he is more honest that Clive ever thought him to be, his ass moving unashamedly, trying to catch him and hold on. Greg says “It’s okay,” and “Please do it,” and Clive does, the endless stretch of tight and narrow and warm. He doesn’t listen to Greg’s curses and screams and encouragements, just moves his hips, in and out, on to a finish, onto something new and complicated.

And it is good, amazing, he bursts out into a million burning pinpricks all over his body, and stops, breathes, lets his forehead rest against Greg’s back in surrender, the end, this was it, you’ve made me into the vision of me you wanted to see. 

Greg doesn’t move for a couple of moments, and then completely startles Clive by laughing. 

“Thank you, mister A,” he says, and suddenly Clive is quietly laughing too, for what feels like the first time in a very long time. Because it fits. It’s the only thing he can do. 

When Greg slowly crawls off the desk Clive stays where he is. 

Suddenly, he is thinking of every possibility he refused to hope for.

He thinks of answering the interesting prickle of Greg’s cheeks with the wet touch of his lips. 

He thinks of glass shattering and tasting Greg’s cigarettes on his warm sliding tongue and hearing him _sigh_. 

Bubbles breaking and running his hands over Greg’s back, through his hair, feeling the warm sweaty skin of his neck and after that, he takes a step forward and actually does it. 

After that, it’s finally real. 

He’s real.

 

 

 

 


End file.
